Where Duty Calls
by intodust
Summary: And not one will know of the war, not one will care at last when


Where Duty Calls  
by intodust  
  
Disclaimer: "Dark Angel" belongs to Cameron/Eglee Productions and 20th Century Fox; it's not mine. The summary is a line from "There Will Come Soft Rains," by Sara Teasdale.  
  
Story takes place sometime after "Rising."  
  
- - -  
  
Blue and white lights dance across the water, sparkling when they catch the jagged edges of broken glass. The room smells of ashes and charcoal, fireworks, and the fast-falling night is visible through the gaps, the holes ripped through concrete. The explosion must have been terrible, but at least it would have been quick. Death would have been almost instantaneous, and they would not have had enough time to realize what was happening, to understand.  
  
It is a blessing. So often they are forced to endure.  
  
There is a struggle where the door once was. They have strung yellow tape across, a warning and a beacon, but he tears it down. There is movement to stop him, uniforms and dark jackets, but they fall back as he enters the room, as they see him. He will contaminate the scene, I think, but what scene is there to contaminate, really? What will we find here?  
  
And he is a witness.  
  
I step towards him and he sees me coming. He looks at me almost fearfully, as if he knows that I will not tell him what he wants to hear, but as I move closer, he forces his expression to go blank, erasing all emotion. I wonder why he is here, because he does not scream or yell or cry. He does not act like a witness, like the ones I question for hours while the sun sets and my coffee grows cold. They ask me why, and I think that he will not.  
  
I never know what to tell them, so this is a relief.  
  
"Sir," I say, and I am close enough to see that his eyes reflect the room around him, flashes of bright light. The frames of his glasses are bent and his hands are scraped and bleeding, and I wonder how close he was when it happened. "You witnessed the explosion?"  
  
His nod is slow and determined. "I did," he says, and he grips the rims of his wheelchair tightly. His hands are bathed in color as the lights revolve, and the blood is dark.  
  
"Where were you when it happened?"  
  
"The parking lot," he says, and then he shudders. "Was it . . . was it quick?" His voice is rough and I wonder why he is so concerned. He should be more worried about himself; this neighborhood is unkind, especially after dark, and he will be an easy target.  
  
"Yes," I say. "Death would have been almost instantaneous." He nods again and for a moment his mask slips, and I see that I have been mistaken. He is not a concerned humanitarian. He knew one of the victims, and he wants information, promises. I wonder how he arrived here so quickly and which one of my men is responsible for the leak.  
  
"There is nothing for you here," I say, and my voice is cold because it needs to be. My job is not to console grieving relatives.  
  
"No," he says. "Not anymore." He pauses. "Can you tell me . . . do you know who is responsible?" His tone betrays him, and it is no longer the question of a curious bystander, nor is it the question of someone who has just lost a loved one. It is the question of someone looking for revenge. He waits for my answer and his need for this knowledge, for my help, is obvious in his eyes.  
  
I turn from him, because this is a job.  
  
It is only a job.  
  
- - -  
  
I have seen mourning in many forms, and death. After this long, they no longer affect me, and I do not envy those who experience them in all their vibrancy. Nor I do not envy the priests who must offer hope and condolences afterward. I am here only to service, and so I am removed from any obligations. I have no sympathy for their tears and questions, and I observe them only out of curiosity.  
  
He disturbs the grass I have just raked, and I raise my eyes to see which one he will visit. I have not seem him here before, and I wonder if he has only recently begun to mourn. I wonder how many more times I will see him. Some come faithfully, returning every week or every month or every year, and some come only once. Some seem to forget.  
  
He does not look like he will be one of those.  
  
He stops in front of one of the new ones and the wheels of his chair rest against the fresh dirt. He stares at the stone and I try to remember which one this was. The burial was last week, I think, but there was no service. I wonder why he did not come then. His hands are bandaged and the white fabric contrasts with the darkness of his clothes. He bows his head and I wonder who it was. I cannot remember the name on the stone, but I do not care to ask. It does not matter.  
  
He is only one of many.  
  
He turns as if he senses me watching him and he frowns when he sees me standing here. I should not have let him see me. There will be questions, and he will want understanding. I look away from him and reach for the rake I left resting against the tree. My fingers scrape the rough brown bark before seizing the cool metal, and when I turn to go, he is there. His gaze is intense, desperate, and I swallow. Who is this person to him? He should let them go, whoever it is. Leave them alone. Leave me alone.  
  
"Do you know?" he asks, and his voice carries easily across the space between us, across the graves.  
  
"Know what?" I say, and I know that I shouldn't speak. It only encourages them.  
  
"Are you here to watch? Did you do this? Did you kill her?" Too many questions. I should not have let him see me.  
  
"I am here to service the graves," I say, and then there is movement. They come from all directions and surround him, dark-clothed men with guns. He looks at me and I step back, not wanting any part of his drama. Our eyes meet for an instant and his are the shade of glaciers. Cold and blue, infinite. He should not be here - he is looking for something that the others are not.  
  
The men move, then, stepping around him and ushering him away from the grave. They do not speak to them and he does not resist. He is too willing. I am not sure who I want to help - the man, because he is outnumbered, or the men around him, because I think that they are not ready for what he is: a wolf, caged and desperate. But it does not matter, because I will not get involved, and soon they disappear over the hill.  
  
I hear an engine start, finally, and then I move out from the shade of this tree. My hand is bleeding where I scraped it, but I do not stop to notice. The wind is blowing again, brushing leaves from the trees. They litter the grass, cover the graves with rust and fire and amber. I will have to come back, to remove them, but not now. I do not want to know the name of his loss, to know why he came. I do not want to get involved. This is a job.  
  
It is only a job.  
  
- - -  
  
It is one of the last rains of the season, the water cold and bitter. The four mourners do not seem to notice it. There are two groups, standing apart, and I wonder why his grave is next to the other one if they had nothing in common. Perhaps it is only coincidence that the mourners are here now. It is not my place to wonder.  
  
The older couple, dressed in clothing that I think is expensive and know only from memories and childhood, turns to go. The man shakes his head, but I am too far away to hear what he says to the woman I assume is his wife. Was it their son I saw taken from here? There is no sadness on their faces, no loss. Only necessity. Whoever they are, they do not miss him.  
  
They leave the graves, and the other mourners do not notice. These two are young and they differ from the other couple in style of dress and in ethnicity. And in emotion, because the woman cries and the man stares unseeingly at the graves. I wonder if the two know each other, if they are friends or even from the same world. I move closer despite myself, though I am careful not to attract their attention as I did his.  
  
"You think he got his revenge?" the woman says.  
  
"I think he's at peace," the man says. "They're at peace."  
  
"First moment of peace my boo ever got," the woman says, and the man nods. They stare at the graves, at both stones, for another moment, and as they turn, I step behind the tree, not wanting to risk their questions. They separate at the top of the hill, heading in different directions, and I wonder who they were. Who was the blond man, to earn this strange variety of mourners, and who was he mourning himself? If I ran, if I abandoned my work, I could catch up with the woman and ask her what the two had in common.  
  
But I do not move, because they are not of consequence. This is a job.  
  
It is only a job.  
  
- - -  
  
The End . . .  
  
Feedback, as always, is much appreciated. 


End file.
